Four Layers Deep
by moon ash
Summary: You've always hated the summer, and now you know why. Every year she meets your brother, Alphonse, in the orchard, where the apple trees aim for the sky and the grass stains her dress. Every year is the same, unchanging, and every year, it hurts just as much. Post Anime/Manga, Alphonse x Winry from Edward's point of view. Written in second person. M for angst and adult themes.


**A/N: ****I'm sorry it's so bad! I usually write for Bleach so I'm not all that used to FMA fics. This is Winry x Alphonse from Edward's point of view.**

**I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

**WARNINGS: ****SEXUAL THEMES (NOT EXPLICIT, BUT IMPLIED), ANGST.**

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**Four Layers Deep**

It was always about you. It had always been about you. It had never been any other way. You are the Fullmetal Alchemist. Correction, you _were_ the Fullmetal Alchemist. And now, as you idle days without alchemy, that name is but a whisper upon your lips. It had always been about you_._ It was always the 'Fullmetal Alchemist,' and never the 'Fullmetal Alchemist's Brother.' It had never been about Alphonse, not truly. You are the eldest brother, the more intelligent, the more talented, the best. Despite your intense affection for him, sibling rivalry pushed you to compete, and you won. Mostly.

It's stifling in your study, you realise now, and fresh air is far more desirable. Your paper on advanced alchemic theory will have to wait until this evening, when the sting of summer has been assuaged. The breeze graces your young face as you walk through your quiet house, and you welcome the comforting scent of your home. You despise this season, and it scorns you. The pollen is over-powering as it rides on the wind, and you pinch your nose as your lungs hammer in your body. You long for the freezing winter.

Footsteps that clap down the stairs draw your attention from the windows, and you turn. You watch as Winry happily hops down the stairs, her beautiful smile wide on her flawless face. You smile at her: the love of your life, and your wife. She returns your smile, adjusting the basket that rests on her hips.

"I'm going to pick apples from the orchard," she tells you, "I'll be back later."

You study her as she speaks at you, the words barely reaching. They don't need to. She's wearing that dress that you adore, it cups her slim body beautifully, and it's more than you can bear. It's not for you, after all. You love that dress. And so does he. Your heart clenches in response, but your expressions betray nothing. Yet. You untie your hair, run your feminine fingers through your spun gold, and re-tie. A distraction, it works. You gain purchase, and smile lazily at her.

"It's hot today, take your hat and sunscreen." You still care, incredibly so. Stupidly so. You hand over her hat and sunscreen, though you she doesn't need them. She gracefully takes them from you, and leaves. From the open windows you watch her silken rivers of golden hair stream behind her as she rushes up and over the grassy knoll. The pain drives deeper.

She's made fresh lemonade, you discover upon checking the kitchen, and you gulp the sweetness down. Your fingers are trembling against the icy glass, and the raw pain greets you all the same. You should be used to it by now, but your pathetic heart refuses to submit.

She's no longer visible from the window, and you to where she rushes. She hurries to the orchard, where nature's giants plunge their roots deep into the soil, anchoring life within the harsh earth. Nature prevails there, from the blackness of depths, and up through the softness of soil, where insects repeat nature, and up through to the light of the grass, where they make love. All is one. One is all. They are one as nature spins and tumbles in an endless cycle. Deeper, it drives: that ache in your heart. She goes to the depths of the orchard, the garden of your beloved, heart breaker of a little brother. Alphonse. They meet where the trees hang lazily, drunk with summer's sun. Where the sun dapples her naked skin through the canopies, and the sweetness of apples stain her lips.

You know why the grass stains bury themselves deep into the fibres of her white dresses, and again, your heart clenches. You hate the summer, and now you know why.

Sighing, you finally tear your gaze from the window, and your dog barks loudly. You pet him with a wistful smile, reassuring him, as there's no one to reassure you. You've argued with yourself for far to long over this. You love her deeply, and every time, you have your answer. Perhaps if you had paid more attention to your wife and less to your academic work, this wouldn't have happened? Had you been so engrossed in finding the philosopher's stone that you had missed the signs? Had you read her wrongly? The glances, the facial expressions, the touches, were they never meant for you? Had she truly been yours to begin with? You shake your head, how many times have you been through this now?

You yearn for the pitter-patter of small feet, the tug of a child's hand on your shirt, and the laughing squeal of "Daddy." It isn't meant to be. She attempts to reassure you every month, but you know why she rushes to the doctors every few months. You're not stupid. Keep trying, they advise, but deep in that pathetic heart of yours, you know she cannot. Not cannot, but will not.

"I suppose I had better get back to work," you say to the dog, though it was more for yourself. You clear your throat, it gets you every time.

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"Ed?" you hear her call from downstairs, her voice a soft, tinkling bell to your ears. It drives deeper still. It's sunset now, and you leave your work and greet your wife, the sun a blood orange against pink.

She throws down her basket and embraces you tightly. Remorse, perhaps? You wrap your arms around her, and you know she loves you, in her own way.

It's not about you, it's about Al. You bury your nose into her hair, her skin, and he's there. The rich tang of earth, of grass, soil, and pollen, and the musk of sweat, sex, and of him, your brother. He's etched deep into her skin as his sweat had smeared into hers. You'd know that unmistakeable smell anywhere, and the comforting familiarity of it stings your eyes and tickles your throat.

You're your father's child, and Al, your mother's. You were granted your father's strength, determination, and intelligence, and your brother, your mother's heart. Her warmth, her sympathy, and her love are so easily expressed in Al. You adore your childish, crybaby of a little brother, and yet you despise the intelligent, handsome, heart-breaker of a man that he has become. But you know that you could never truly hate your brother, he's everything you have.

She refuses to let you go, and you inhale further. It hits you then. Below the homely scent of Alphonse, you smell yourself. You smell the faint traces of the home in which you live, your dog, and you smell yourself. Her skin, her hair, her body are laced with Alphonse, but you, you are in her soul, still fused to the core with her, an un-splittable alchemic reaction.

You feel her wedding ring against your skin, cool and comforting, but it does little to quell the grief in your heart. You know though, that your scent will one day disappear too, whilst Al's will remain. Again, the pain drives deeper into you. Traces of your childhood home are flecked within her skin, her childhood home -where you now live, Pinako, Den, Urey and Sara: her parents, Hoenhiem and Trisha: your parents, and lastly, yourself. Your mother's beautiful smile, the warmth of her hand on your arm; your shoulder as she reassures you, and melodic tinkling of her voice, haunt you.

"It's okay, Edward," your mother would reassure you as she soothes back your hair, "I'm proud of you." And she was proud. She is proud, still. You've come so far, achieved so much, and she would love you all the more for it.

There's nothing to give you support now, not even Winry's arms as she holds you. There's no comfort in her anymore, and Alphonse radiates from her pores.

You break.

"I'm going to take Xander for a walk," you say, catching yourself one step before the fall. She releases you, and you do your best to cover the anguish in your eyes, and the grief that etches lines into your face.

"I'll put dinner on," she agrees as she leaves you, picking up her basket and carrying it to the kitchen. You watch her as she busies herself, her white sundress smeared with soil and grass. Xander distracts you, and you greet the chilly evening with vigour: the cooler air will clear you head. It's only a short walk, and you soon enjoy the solitude with your mother. The remaining foundations of your childhood house stand black against the evening, and you splinter.

You're a child, crying helplessly in front of your mother, and you hate yourself for it. You're weak in front of her, and you want nothing more than to crawl to her and cry yourself to sleep. You fall to the grass, gripping your knees as tears stain your porcelain cheeks, droplets falling thick and fast. Xander whines, and you know why. You no longer care, and when he knees beside you, one arm around your back, you cry into him. He's just as guilty as she, but somehow, you forgive him, for now. His chin rests atop your head as you stain his shirt, and sense Winry on his clothes and deep within his skin. It drives the pain deeper as he holds you. You take him in, the disgusting, reassuring scent of your darling little brother, Alphonse.

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**I'm sorry it's so bad!**


End file.
